


At Twenty-One

by seperis



Series: For Now [4]
Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-11-30
Updated: 2000-11-30
Packaged: 2017-10-10 08:40:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/97769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seperis/pseuds/seperis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drinking and gloves and odd things occur. Humor, angst, and dancing. You're warned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At Twenty-One

**Author's Note:**

> Sare, for giving me a hell of a headache for motivations. I do love her for it.

"Marie."

Mmmm. Logan. I classify my dreams in two categories--those that involve Logan and those that don't. Subcategorize Logan into three distinct types--sex, about to have sex, or him having sex with Jean.

I'm a sick puppy. But he's saying Marie, so that means its category 1 or 2--always good. The Jean ones tend to disturb me, even when I'm playing the part of Jean.

No, _*especially*_ if I'm playing the part of Jean. No, I don't need a therapist. Don't look at me like that, either.

"Marie." A little more impatient, and something smooth slides across my cheek. Like leather. Very good leather, if the smell is anything to go by. Butter-soft. Those have made an appearance in a few dreams, let me tell you.

But usually, he doesn't use that tone when he tells me he'd like to push me up against the wall and miraculously produces a condom out of thin air.

"MARIE."

I open my eyes and it's dark--well, yeah, it's dark. I automatically turn my eyes to the clock, see 11:58 clearly written in neon yellow color--Jubes' clock.

My fantasy life rarely goes along with time constraints.

"What the fuck are you waiting for, Christmas? Get the hell up." It's a slightly amused growl, layered with impatience, which as far as I know, never made a cameo in any of my dreams to date.

And a hand gets hold of my shoulder and I'm still staring at the clock and you know what? This isn't a dream. I don't dream about clocks.

"Logan?" I blink and realize there's a weight distribution problem with my mattress because I'm slowly sliding leftward on my bed and come in contact with something that is definitely a stationary object.

"Who'd you think it was, Santa?" And a low chuckle and he shifts. "Get up, before Scooter figures out where I went." He finds my hand, stopping at the edge of my gloves. "For God's sake, Marie--"

I struggle to sit, still tilted, and come up against his arm. Not bad at all. Blinking, I readjust my eyes and see the slight smirk.

"Logan! When'd you get home?"

"A few minutes ago. Are you coming or not?"

"Coming?" I'm still half-asleep. And my mind is still in dreamland, where he says that a little differently and with such a different meaning.

So I sit for a second, take in a few facts. Logan is sitting on my bed. Fantasy 1 is half done. But he's wearing clothes, which isn't what I had in mind. Okay, so this is reality, but as reality goes, it's pretty damn good. Why the hell is Logan sitting on my bed?

"Out. Coming, out, somewhere not here. You turn twenty-one in two minutes." A grin I can see. "Let's go." A hand brushes my hair back from my face and he shakes his head. "I need to carry ya or what?"

Do I need a better invitation than that? I try to swing out--but legs collide with the immovable object on my bed.

"Tonight?" I need confirmation--yeah, yeah, yeah, him sitting here ain't confirmation enough? But this isn't my sordid fantasy life here--this is reality pure and simple. And damned good.

"Yeah. So's I was thinkin'--I don't usually raid your room this late." Hell, I didn't even know he knew I'd gotten a room--and he sounds different tonight, though. And I can't put my finger on it.

Logan knows how to keep a promise, I'll give him that.

"Can you wait outside or something?" Me, shy? Cease laughing, folks--its one thing to dress in front of the female friends--such as Jubes--who feel perfectly comfortable walking in and discussing their sex life with you while you're showering. Southern modesty and all that crap.

Another chuckle.

"You got twenty minutes."

Then he's out the door and only the remaining warmth of him on my bed testifies to the fact this isn't part of my imagination.

And I _*jump*_ outta bed.

Closet, closet, closet--I pull it open and start sorting through. Shirts--too sexy, too conservative, too yellow, too blue. Red--short sleeves, dropped neckline, leaves an inch of skin open no matter what I wear below. My jeans aren't gonna cut it--skirt, skirt, skirt--found it. Black, not too short because I sure as hell don't wanna scare him. And running through my mind is a Plan.

It's not much of a Plan. But I'm thinkin' anytime you mix alcohol in, any Plan will work with a little effort.

I throw the Chosen on the bed and skip into the bathroom.

"Rogue?"

I duck my head out, hairbrush in hand, stealing ten seconds of my twenty minute quota.

"Jubes, go back to sleep."

A sleepy dark head lifts itself from the tangle of bedclothes.

"What the hell are you doing?" She rubs her eyes absently and sits up.

"I'm outta here, babe." Hair, up or down? Which way do I go? Shit. I stare at the mirror for a second, then at the makeup, then at the clock.

Eighteen minutes.

A small Asian slides in beside me and takes in my look.

"Twenty-one," she says softly, then smiles. "He came home, didn't he?"

My face gives me away. Before I can really say anything--and what could I say anyway?--she pushes me down on the toilet, gets the brush from my hand, and starts plying it with vigor.

"Shit, Jubes!" She doesn't seem to care much about the jerking--and my hair is coming along nicely apparently, because she calls in Reinforcements.

"Kitty!"

Crap, wake up the whole damned school why doncha, Jubes?

A sleepy-lookin' Kitty is at the door, looking startled.

"Rogue--whatcha wearin'?" The question is snapped out like an order from the general. General Jubilation Lee, that is--yeah, I get the joke too. The South woulda won if she'd been in charge.

I blink and answer automatically.

"On the bed."

Kitty nods--like the good lieutenant she is--and Jubes goes to serious work. I can't tell you exactly what she does--it's trademarked, you understand--but when I check out the mirror five and a half minutes later, I'm pretty stunned.

"He's going to figure out something is up," I whisper, because the chick in the mirror isn't the same one he woke up--or the same one he's been hanging with for the last four years either.

"Let 'im." Jubes nods slowly, tucking the lipstick into my hand. "This stuff stays on no matter what, but take this in case. Out you go--damn, I do good work." She looks at me admiringly--the master appreciating a good work of art. "Okay, let's see what you're wearing."

Apparently, the clothes passed muster, but when I see the accessories--

"Boots?" I don't own boots like that.

"Trust me," Kitty answers and Jubilee pushes me toward the bed. Shirt, fine, skirt, boots--black hose, almost forgot--black scarf--gloves--

"I can't wear those!"

Those aren't my nice, long, concealing opera gloves.

"Chill." Kitty and Jubes stare at me until I realize that they have every intention of dressing me themselves if I don't get to it. I pull my nightgown off and Jubes shakes her head.

"Go change."

I look down.

"What's wrong?"

Kitty and Jubes share a glance and Kitty shakes her head slowly.

"Are we goin' schoolgirl crush or tryin' to seduce someone in a bar?" asks Jubes slowly, like she's talking to a particularly stupid child--and she is, because my brain is still locked in the 'this is actually happening' mode. I haven't gotten far enough.

"Jubes--all my underwear is like this." And I'm blushing, because I just don't usually discuss underwear. Kitty smirks and she and Jubilee share a glance.

"Technically, it is her birthday," Kitty tells Jubilee. Jubilee nods and I start getting a Sinking Feeling. You know the one.

Before I know it, I'm in the bathroom with a wrapped box, clothes piled neatly at my feet and just looking at the label tells me that whatever is in here--oh good God.

"You're kidding!" They're not.

"Hurry. You got less than four minutes, hon. Make it quick."

This can't possibly qualify as underwear--hell, it wouldn't qualify as scrap after making underwear.

"He's gonna be gettin' impatient," Jubes reminds me, and the last thing I need is an impatient Logan.

And yeah, my fantasy life has included scraps of lace.

The gloves are what's getting to me--black, all to the good, but end at that dangerous just-above-the-wrist zone, leaving my arm pretty much bare. I tie my scarf on with shaking fingers--

\--Logan's going to take one look and figure out the Plan real damn quick.

When I come out, Jubes nods sagely.

"Perfect," Kitty says. Then hands me a tiny purse--lipstick taken from my hand and placed within--and I see something in there that _*isn't*_ lipstick.

"No fucking way."

Jubilee smirks.

"In case he forgets."

I pull it open, staring at the sheer number--and are they colored? I think one is green.

"What the hell--"

"We believe in being prepared." Kitty zips the purse up while I'm still standing there, looking, very possibly, like a landed fish--and a hand on my back propels me out the suddenly open door and I'm standing in front of Logan in shell shock.

Logan doesn't say anything--and I'm trying very hard to keep my focus on my feet.

"Bring her home before next week, 'kay?" Jubilee says, with her sweetest smile, and my jacket lands at my feet. Thank you God--or Kitty--something to take my attention. I lean down to pick it up. And turn to give them the dirtiest look in history before the door closes smugly in my face.

"Sorry," I whisper.

"I've had the pleasure of Jubilee's company," he answers--is that amusement?

And I'm suddenly more awake than ever. When has he spent time with Jubilee? But I pull on my jacket and for once he doesn't check me for clothing no-no's--doesn't even protest about the gloves. And apparently because I'm a girl and not walking fast enough--I'm adjusting to the heels on the boots--he gets my hand and pulls me along behind him.

"Where's Scott?"

"Jeannie's distractin' him."

That almost makes me stop and I turn to give him a glance, seeing the very wicked smile turning up his lips.

"Jean knows?"

"Had to find your room somehow--I know you don't live in the dorms anymore."

Ah. Good call.

We use the kitchen door, which is the farthest from the residential areas--and the bike is waiting.

The Plan is in effect. Sort of. I just gotta figure out what The Plan is.

* * *

When I see where we are--

"This isn't your kind of place." It's not. I'm not seeing anything resembling illegal activity, fighting, or men who probably belong in prison.

He just gives me a look.

I study it again--yeah, it's a neighborhood bar, small enough to be comfortable, large enough so we aren't conspicuous--this is New York, after all. Relatively good lighting--okay, revising as we walk in. Okay lighting, with comfortable dark corners--and Logan wanders over to the bar and I follow him like the puppy I am, keeping a death-hold on his jacket because, and I'm beginning to notice this--there are _*alot*_ of people here for a Thursday night.

I'm not fond of crowds.

"What'll you have?" he asks me. That's new and I blink, thinking. The possibilities are endless.

"Pick something," I answer sweetly and he grunts and gives me a push.

"Get a table."

I know him well enough to guess that 'away from people' is the only real requirement here, so I start my scouting mission with enthusiasm. Okay, we want privacy--if I'm going to Do Something, gotta have as few people stumbling by as possible. Booth. Somewhere relatively dark--but not too dark or he'll get all jittery. Thinking, thinking...

It's easy when miracles occur to girls with Bad Plans. Corner, out of regular sight, enough light not to make Certain Men a little curious as to why you want it dark, and nicely isolated. The dance floor is in view but not too close and no one will wander over there for the heck of it.

I begin to walk--and realize that I have to cross the dance floor to do it. Shit. Count down five, four, three, two--

"Hey baby."

One. You can't be a girl and cross a dance floor alone without it happening at least once. Test it. You'll find I'm right, especially after midnight.

He's tall, he's lean, and he's drunk--on a Thursday night? Student from the university. Shimmies up a little too close, and suddenly I'm ultra-aware that my neckline leaves a lot of skin exposed and my arms are bare--and he isn't wearing anything to protect his hands.

"Sorry," I say, trying to get by. But Drunk College Students aren't the brightest stars in the sky as a rule and he's the one they made the rule for. He dodges--gracelessly--in front of me and tries to smile--it sort of comes out as a leer, though I'm relatively sure that's not what he intended.

"Pretty girl," he says. "You wanna dance?"

"No." I try again, keeping my one foot rule in existence. He shatters it right down when he shimmies--badly--right up against me, one hand finding my back and less than a breath from the exposed skin of my waist.

"Come on--"

"Get the fuck away from me!" And maybe that was a little violent, but his other hand was drifting close to my arm and--shit--damn--get him the hell away--

\--and then he's gone--like he teleported out of range--and I feel smooth leather on my back. I'm not even surprised.

"What'd you do?" I whisper as he walks me along the floor--and people are _*stumbling*_ to get out of the way. I could get used to this.

"Looked mean."

I look up at him, frowning a little and notice he's rubbing his knuckles lightly and the leather has a nice clean tear at the knuckles.

"Oh. That's not very inconspicuous, you know."

"He's so drunk he's probably already forgotten about it." I give the floor a look as we step off into Safe Territory and yeah, he's dancing with a bouncy little blonde who reminds me disturbingly of the waitress at that diner Logan took me to last year.

Worry 'bout that later. I've got Logan, a nice quiet place, and some serious drinking to begin on.

He drops the bottle on the table--how he got an entire bottle out of the bartender I don't even care to ask--and then two shot glasses.

"You sure you wanna do this?"

I give him my best scornful look, tossing my head as I begin to strip off my jacket. So far, the Plan consists of trying to look sexy. Hope it works.

"No, I'm just here for the atmosphere. I have been to a few parties, Logan." None I got drunk at, though--can't afford it with my interesting condition. But I figure that Logan can handle it.

"I'm just checking." Easily, he takes off his jacket and picks up the bottle, giving me a long look before filling both. "You done this before?"

Actually--no. I never got passed the mixed drinks stage. He must see it on my face because he chuckles.

"Easy. You've seen it done. All at once. Got it?"

He slides me the glass and I study it. Bourbon--damn fine stuff and I've done some serious research into the interesting kinds there are. Slowly, I pick up the glass and he stops me, fingers locked on mine.

"Gloves off."

Shit.

"How'd I know you'd say that?" But a year of nagging does pay off--I strip them off and drop them on the table without further comment. "What if--"

"Marie, darlin', there ain't no one comin' over here for any reason." He holds up a hand. "I'm wearin' mine, so no worries. Ready?" He picks up his shot and I pick up mine.

"You think I won't do it," I tell him, seeing his gaze fixed on the glass--which I admit I'm maybe holding a little too hard..

"I think you'll do anything you please. On count, one, two, three."

It's a shock--as I said, I've done mixes. But this is totally different--it tastes terrible, with that light lace of familiarity that tells me a few memories of Logan's just broke the surface.

And it burns all the way down. And I don't realize my eyes are closed until I squeeze them open and see him laughing at me.

"What?" My voice is a croak and that's enough to make him start again. How I manage to awaken his sense of humor like this is beyond me.

"Nothin'." He pours the second shot. "I'll give you to three."

I take the glass.

"Why three?"

"You don't have my tolerance."

"Logan, you don't have tolerance, you have a healing factor. There's a difference. And I can get past three."

Actually, I don't know about that.

The second shot goes down much better, and those memories uncoil slowly inside me--memories that the years since I touched him had slowly worn down into the back of my mind. But I remember this bourbon--a night long ago, in a tropical place--a tall woman--

"I don't need to remember that." I whisper it without even thinking and suddenly feel his hand close on my wrist.

The cool eyes meet mine, and he frowns a little in thought.

"Remember what?"

I don't look at him, turning my gaze back to the empty shot in my hand. With a certain amount of venom, I slam it on the table. The sound makes me jump.

Before he can say anything, I reach across and grab his jacket, pulling out a cigar.

"Figured you were the one snatching them," he murmurs, with a slight smile. I glance up, wary despite the high alcohol content of my blood at this point.

"Just because I have one now?" The smell is a little lighter than the usual type he keeps in his room.

"Nope--you leave your scent on the drawer."

He looks smug and I blink, thinking that carefully through. And maybe it's the alcohol that's keeping the panic at bay, because you know, that should really worry me.

"You couldn't. Sometimes it's months--"

No fucking way.

"And since no one goes in there 'cept me--and apparently you, darlin'--it stays for awhile."

Oh my God.

But oddly he doesn't say anything else--maybe he missed the other places a Marie-scent lingers?--and passes me the shot glass and I take it as fast as I can get it into my hand. And I'm sure it's my imagination that his fingers linger on mine for a second longer than really necessary.

"How're you going to explain to Scoo--Scott, I mean--getting me drunk?" I ask. Logan shrugs.

"Not gonna." He pulls up the lighter, flicking it on. "You want me to light it, Marie?"

I consider it before biting off the tip and spitting it out.

"Yeah. Go for it, sugar."

Okay, so I am feeling the effects of alcohol.

We sit in comfortable silence when Logan finally does that really rare thing and breaks the silence.

"You graduate yet?"

And it takes an unusually long time for me to find the answer. I ruminate, perhaps too long, on the fact Logan just made small talk.

"Yeah," I answer carefully. The room looks a little darker and a hell of a lot friendlier. And there's a dance floor. "I want to dance." And I get to my feet.

Remember reflexes? I mean, er, his? I sort of forget that on occasion. One hand was locked on my arm and pushing me back down before I can even figure out how my feet are supposed to move in these boots--and aren't those heels high?

"Not at that angle," he tells me. "Sit."

I'm at an angle? I sit, mulling the unfairness of it all.

"Give it awhile. That's three in less than ten minutes. You won't be able to stand upright."

"Will you dance with me?"

The Plan may be coming together after all. I'm being clever.

"You're kidding."

I lean upward onto the table, on my elbows. His eyes focus somewhere that is below my line of sight.

"Nope. My birthday. You promised." I punctuate that with a finger ground into the table. It hurts. A lot. Not important--I just poked a little too hard. And overbalance--I'm not exactly sure how--and Logan rights me gently and tilted up my face.

"I want another shot."

"No way in hell." He says it pleasantly and moves the bottle out of range. "You've had enough for now."

"I can outdrink you." My voice is a little loud. I don't much care. He considers me, then pours two more shots. Hesitates, then hands me one.

"Now," I whisper, throwing it back. Somewhere in the back of my mind is a bar in a freezing place and a woman is draped across my lap, looking up at me. Pretty. Blue eyes. A killer smile. Long fingers, bare hands.

"Did you even know her name?"

Logan stands up, reaching across the table when I reach for the bottle.

"Nope. Slow down." His hand pins mine down. It's my imagination that the fingers on mine slide over my bare wrist briefly.

"What're you afraid of?" I ask. "Maybe forgetting I'm your little sister?"

There's one thing that they don't really get around to explaining about alcohol--that it can make you do stupid thing while _*knowing*_ they're stupid. And that was stupid. And I cared. But I really couldn't stop it.

But damn him, he just looks amused.

"I don't have any sisters." His hand lifts off my wrist, shaking his head. "It's your headache." He pulls the bottle from under my hand and pours--it's belatedly occurring to me that perhaps my hand-eye coordination isn't all it should be, when the room does a tilt. "Take the shot. On two."

We took it at the same time and I half-rise--and here's the other thing about alcohol the brochure didn't cover. You may feel tipsy when you drink it--but it's nothing compared to how you feel when you stand up. I grab for the table and Logan laughs.

"Sit." I sit--and not because he tells me to, but because I really _*need*_ to. Once sitting, Logan leans across and pushes the last shot at me.

"Do it."

I stare at him.

"You told me to stop."

"You've never listened to me before now."

"You never gave me an order worth following, neither."

"Then follow that one."

I pick it up, staring at the dark brown coolly for a moment--never noticed before how close it is to the color of his eyes--then tossing it back easily. And this time, it's nothing--nothing but a heat through my stomach and that's when I stop noticing how idiotic I can be. Slamming the glass down, I push it aside and lean over, resting my elbows on the table.

"Where were you?"

"Recently?" He slides his glass next to mine. "Cincinnati."

"Why?"

Head tilted a little, watching me carefully.

"You like it?"

I consider the question from all angles. Then decide to try and figure out what it means. Then wonder what it's referring to.

He shakes his head.

"Bourbon."

"Oh. Yeah." Another memory--a slim blonde, a little vicious, long nails, very creative. I look down at my hands, at the short nails.

"You don't even have scars."

He keeps watching me--like he's looking for something. And I can't figure out what it is exactly he's watching for.

"Remembering, huh? Thought as much."

Startled, I look up, see his eyes fixed on the table, before they meet mine. He's amused, damn it.

"How'd you know?" The drawl is coming back fast--three years in New York had dulled it some, but apparently alcohol gives you a brand new language as well.

"Something the Professor said awhile back about all those memories of yours."

"What do I remember?" I ask him, putting my full weight on my elbows and resting my knees on the seat of the booth. Trying to focus my eyes was more difficult than expected.

"Depends on what bourbon reminds you of."

"You." Wow, it's easy to get on that path to destruction.

It's one of those things that isn't really apparent until just now--I'm Marie. No, not that. I'm Marie, whom Logan picked up on the side of the road--granted, he threw me out on the side of the road first--whom Logan feels responsible for, who he saved from Magneto. Sort of a bond--he scares the crap out of other people but never scares me. I'm Marie, therefore I have a free pass, as far as Logan's concerned.

The thing is, and this is something new for me all of a sudden, that I only know that Logan. I've only heard about that other side--the side that likes to fight and drink and fuck women three ways from Sunday. The one who gets off by screwing around in a ring and beating the crap out of people, the one who slipped three claws in Mystique, the one with what in a normal person might be called a suicidal tendency. The one who fears absolutely nothing, because he's three steps from being immortal, or as close to it as any human can ever get.

The one I saw in the ring at Laughlin City, who's a completely different man from the one shooting whisky with me. Only one of them is in my fantasy life.

Who knew alcohol would bring profound thoughts.

"Logan." My voice is steadier. He gives me a politely curious look and I consider the revelation. "Why don't you want me to wear gloves?"

He considers his answer, mulling it with that peculiarly Loganish interest, like he would watch an opponent on the ground and try to figure out if they're down for the count or they need a kick to the balls to keep 'em where they are.

"Because I don't like them on you."

"And you decide what you like and I do it?"

A suggestion of a smirk.

"So far."

Screw that.

I grab my gloves, beginning to pull them back on, and he catches my wrist.

"You scared to take a risk still?"

"I'm not scared of anything!" My voice is _*really*_ loud. Luckily, no one's close enough to hear--or maybe they don't care.

"You're scared of yourself. Half the time, you're scared of being Marie, half the time you're scared of being Rogue. Like you can't have both, like you can't be who and what you are. Forget the fucking gloves tonight, Marie, because this is one night you can be both and it won't matter."

I stare at him.

"You don't understand."

"No--you want to sit back and hope everything falls into place the way you want it to with no effort expended--like some fucking day you're gonna wake up and be able to touch." Suddenly, he flattens my hand on the table, pressing it down. And it hurts. And his expression doesn't change. "Maybe you won't--why the hell is it stopping you from doing whatever the hell you damn well want?"

My mouth falls open.

"Or didn't you learn that yet?"

"Fuck you."

"Booths are uncomfortable. Trust me."

That's a brunette in Bridgeport, in a tiny bar, and Logan was bored out of his mind. My fingers shake under his and he turns my hand over, tracing the palm with the tip of his finger.

"Tell me what you remember." He's still tracing my hand but his eyes are holding mine.

"A lot." The things that lingered--the need to run, the feel of skin beneath mine and the way he can do what he wants because he's never afraid.

And I want to pull away and run--run hard and fast and just--just move. But before I can do anything--even think anything clearly--he stands up, pulling me to my feet and I feel my scarf drift to the floor and we're--

\--Dear God, we're on the dance floor and he's dancing with me. And my hands are bare and so are my arms and he shakes his head when I try to pull away.

I need more whiskey. I'm suddenly dead sober.

"You wanted to dance, right?" And suddenly, his hands slide down my back and he pulls me closer. I stare up, too startled to really say anything, hands held back from him--

\--shit, I'm still scared.

"What are you doing?" Yes, I know what the fuck he's doing--I just don't believe it.

"Dancin'. Like you wanted."

And we're surrounded by people and he's inches away and my hands--

\--I need my gloves.

"The thing about a fantasy--it's never as good as reality is." It's a whisper in my ear. And I lift my head, trying to breathe through my panic.

"You fucked Jean so you'd know?"

A slight smile.

"Nope. Maybe even the reason I don't want to anymore. It's easy to have one and say to yourself that it's better to keep it and ignore anything and anyone else. But you know that, don't you?"

My whole body goes cold and I feel the soft leather around my waist, tracing my skin.

He's right--my fantasies never included this.

"It's even worse to get what you want and find out it isn't what you thought it was."

I close my eyes.

"This your new and improved idea of a lesson, Logan?" I tell his shirt, because looking up at him ain't gonna cut it. "What's the moral this time?"

"What do you want? And think before you answer, Marie."

I want him. No, wait--that's not the answer.

Logan, who will never stay in one place. Logan, who gets a huge kick out of beating the shit out of people--it ain't just business, it's pleasure. Logan'll never compose poetry to how great I am--like Bobby did. Will never wander about telling me how perfect I am--like Remy. Won't drop at my feet panting and expect that he'll never get anything more out of me than light touches with gloved fingers because I'm so scared of hurting someone. He'll never give me excuses and he won't let me use them.

And if I choose to right now, I can keep that fantasy of Logan for the rest of my life if I want to--and keep the fantasy that it's Jean that stops everything.

It's all about risk.

And my hands are still bare.

I jerk away and he lets me and we stare at each other.

"Even now, huh?" Soft, staring at the hands I've clasped against my chest.

Fucking bastard.

He doesn't say anything else, because that's not how he likes to do things, and where he got this little enigmatic streak is beyond me. I grab my scarf off the floor, pace back to the table, grab the bottle, and take a drink. I'm dead sober and I barely feel the burn as it goes down. The cigar is still on the table and I turn to see him watching me again.

"Let's go."

Nothing--like he expected it. I slip my gloves on and my scarf in my purse and follow him out and when we're outside I stare at the skyline and try to think through anger, through diminishing panic.

"How do you know if it's worth the risk?" And maybe I sound bitter, or angry, or just confused, because I'm all three.

I can feel his eyes on me even if I can't manage to look up at him yet.

"You don't. You just have to jump and figure that it's worth falling to find out."

Fantasy means one thing--the reality might not be what I expected.

"Why don't you want me to wear my gloves?"

A long, long silence.

"Because it scares you so badly now, and it didn't used to." He turns my hand up so I can see it--not much to see.

I remember the movies--and I remember being willing to run up and hug him when he came home and not wearing them. When it was enough to be careful.

And I'm still afraid.

And now, after all this time, I finally get it.


End file.
